rules

BKK, you only had smiles for me. But I was sadly, not pitiable – keep it, not able to heart back, barely to mouth back, to return the embracing welcome, with this cemented snot in my head, thanks to the english white senior fat royal bitch of a lady, with her red-rubbed nose and compassionate line of sight, line of spreading her sickness around like candies or a cool breeze in the midday insolation on the airfield, countinuing trapped in the isolation of the winged quarantine capsule. Two days after I was lying on my hotelroom, kept trapped by a flue. Did some random attemptable moves to treat, to recover by ignoring. Meeting friends, soften the cemented facial expression with smiles and illustrating stories, met my friends Amber and Eric, the husband in tow, living on Bali, challenging life abroad with successful blogging – I know why I despise that business – and Eric selling balls, not his, unfortunately, would earn some passion. Anyway. People change or don´t or don´t want to or are not aware of doing so. We went together to a touristic Muay Thai Show, which was on the athletic side impressive, but shallow as drained paddy field. So boring. Shooting after with the crew, blogging needs to earn its promotion. Couple of beers and a late night dinner with one of the actors, far from calling him a fighter, lovely guy thou and anyhow. The food poisoned my stomach and felt that close to a magic healing by drinking, on the next day this attempt made just everything worst. But hanging around on the room was no option. Roaming around in Chinatown, a roamer not a wanderer anymore – no lenses, no guidance, no sight in sight, only a feeling of havng a stopover in one of my favorite cities I could call home, easily and frivolous, avoided to stay close or kind-of-still nearby to Khaosan Road this time, and for sure the next time again. BKK is too huge anyway to stay only and on top in one of the most dull parts. I realized again how I love and missed the big, the real metropolises.
A homeless rubbing the top of his head, furious and complaining – supposable, listening to the raise and rage in his voice, at a branch of a tree, in front of a school, to the left a small channel, not a venetian, more vulgar in its motion and carriage business.
Another bum reading newspaper, studying a supermarket full size christmas promotion page, with one armed old glasses without lenses and nails as long as you can mistake his hands with claws. The micro consumption temples, for young and old – but not for the poor and the crestfallen, naturally, a credit card away from the finite fountain of youth, smelling like success. Impresses and disgusts me at the same time. Finally this move to treat my flue didn´t work out as well, I left with tears in my eyes. For a brief slow motioned moment I felt the weight of pointlessness, a black spot, a falling insatiable hole, eat you up from the inside, leaving behind plastic and bloodshot promises and an infinte loop of needs and carelessness. I bought half connected to and from consumption, bewildered wild, on an emotional warfare, a pair of closed shoes, for the posh clubs I never go to, for the trendy walks I never take, in one size too small, cause my feet are not used anymore to fashion, only to comfort. Another pair of flip flops, faked Birkenstock, causing blisters after a walk and getting lost. What a waste. What a hassle, what a realistic hassle.
The third attempt to distract me from surrendering me to the flue, getting tattooed. At one of the most lovely studios I have ever dropped in. Six Fathoms Deep. The studio loaded with Master of the Universe characters, toys, whole scenes. I felt like a kid, me as a boy. And how the studio shows off! Its uniqueness. A place full of treasures and the artists setting the distinguishing marks in particular. How I miss that, not the rustic spirituality, narrow-mindedness, but the megalomania, without being aware of, just because of surviving and riding the rigidity. My true inspiration. I wanna be inspired, not a guidance. Matt, one of the artists, did a great job, finishing, or shall I say continueing my forehead. And can´t wait to get the heroes of our childhood – Ralf – on the back of my feet, next year, dedicated to the soil of our friendship, let´s throw some sand out of the pit! But so far, well, the visit was a pleasure, a reminder, the snot still stayed put, dooged and increasing the pressure. In three days I will jump on a plane to Kathmandu and I will, I am yearning for.

But first some rules, understandings, hindsights and blindsides:

1. Don´t just widen your range of skills and abilities, practice!

2. Stop drinking and smoking. Practice!

3. Get back to vegetarianism. Why? I love animals, but I wouldn´t mind to kill, we are humans, we kill, loving or not.

4. Don´t you dare stopping to express yourself, pussy! Free yourself is a process, but do it at last! No being of freedom and love, it is almost worth the excitement, thou a peaceful balance of an embracing serenity, processing self-creation and disformation might be as adequate as challenging my emotional abyss. Bit more courage, if you please! Metropolitan cities like BKK, as much as I miss the vibrating varity and the madness of it corners, bruises and amorphousness, the unleashed commercialism lets me pull by my narcissism. And I fuckin hate it! This is so far from free. With all its new reinventions, promotions, opulence and aversion, decay, melting hubs and sinking pots. The metropolis is the alive standing ruin of the world, the real apocalypse, the final corrossion is only an act of conformity. Keep floating on the bloodstream of money, stay attached not drowning. There is no against or with the current, this is pathetic. Disorder is order as order needs mayhem. We are all and all what is. Weirdness doesn´t exist, only if you wanna buy or sell it. Weird is only that I still don´t give a fuck. I pronounce to free myself! Cut myself loose, the driftwood, the solitude, as a concept of multitude, broken walls, open the last gates and always a knife in my pocket, just in case. Be as mas as you can!
And no, mad doesn´t mean to party, to have fun, take drugs, drink booze or be as stupid as you are anyway.

More findings (to) follow…

comment

The cruel – on purpose thous not unprofitable – and scary unregulated secondary effects of systematic and controlled crisis of war illustrate the most threatening outburst of social eruption, causing radicalism of any kind.
It´s not that everything is connected – by men, but you can point on links, even phenomenons, based on psychological disfunction. Lost in plot. Failed in anger management, escaping in one of the carefully arranged concept of enemies, agitators, undemocratics, misanthropes. Exploited human junk.
How will the siege of Sydney affect the sales quantity of Lindt chocolate in the coming days? How automatic and subliminal is the act of sympathy and sorrow? Allowing you to move on…

look

Look at you.
I am getting old.
All this marks on your body.
Confirmation of kills, a campaign of return and exits,
not to forget my creation, my artificiality and state of alienation.
I am growing old.
Perceiving the weakness of flesh.
Scarred. Signs of agony, I never owned,
but borrowed, to dissect the menace of humiliation.
Marks of setbacks. Written in blood on blood,
and always be,
in the razor-thin dark, to seal the light beneath.

Look at you.
With your hairy belly, your crooked posture.
The underwear, worn out, shed its fit.
The legs, finely spun.
Your feet, with a flip flopped smile of the sun on the back.

Look at you.
Through a feverish gaze, blurring boundaries, red-necked.
Emptiness.
Sadness.
Solitude.
Angst-ridden.
Awareness-driven.
Love-jaded.

Look at you.
You, who is still here.

crossing

Being, alive and dead, has its space of matters and causes,
its meaning and identities, its fashion and fugacity,
allegorize a summa of touches, crossings, impacts,
intersections of random despotism and purpose,
of a permanent reincarnation of newborn,
a spontaneous micro bang,
extending in its directness and irreversibility,
a multiplicating reproduction of a recreating creationship.

Being all exists in parallel universes, in memories,
flashing dances and totem rituals,
on a mental and physical level.
We wander in a parallel universe of a universe of parellel universes,
changed with us, by us, altering inside us,
as a theory of penetration, occupation, establishment and imprint.
A blur tangency of a pale momentum,
less than a squint against the light,
but a sparkle of an ignition, to big bang!

I live now in dreams of my touched and imprinted,
They live in me, dreaming inside me,
An identity never repeats again,
escaping in a glorious chaos of an eternal vast.

Life is the complexity of myriad and perpetual universes and reverse.
We are crossing and creating.
We are producing our reproductionism,
adjectivizing versions of me, us, a new dirty parallel universe in tail.
We live in everything and nothing,
in our selfish and simultaneously and timeless sphere of being.

And every momentum I am God,
I am the creator and the creation.
I am, was and will be created, as long as I cross.
We all live in parallel universes.
We are the universe,
because of our efforts of understanding,
despite ourself.

(Book of misunderstanding, psalm of despiritualisation, verse 1)

Natural life

Artless life.
Elemental life, by implication.
Not biodegradable.
Not purchasable,
corruptible,
packable.
Freedomless.
Chainless.
In order of borderlessness.
Illimitability.
No security.
No love.
But hate.
No feelings, but humanity.
No happiness.
No humility.
Nothing of your concepts to gain,
to strain, to fuck, to maintain.
Blind perception.
Dazzling enlightment.
Balancing the unrest.
No quest.
No walls.
No hunt.
But fall.
But nakedness.
But purity.
Of dirt and dust.
A truth of deformedness.
The beauty of madness.
A loose nature of evolution.
All what matters is between.
All what matters is life in between.

placed

I wanna feel this virgin moment, to depart the western world. At and by a place no one has acceded yet. Discover a place, hasn´t been touched by a white – beside the fact, that the place was founded by the people called natives, tribes, communities, farmers, local bums, whoever. Where no one speaks english. What an adventure!
We, the travelers, wanna find that place, on foot, by taxi, boat, plane or by a guide, had to promise that no tourist has seen that place before. There must be that kind of a place, waiting for us, to get venomed by our appearance. Keeping the wheel, the vicious circle, of tourism turning.
Expecting something rural, primarily, back to the roots, instead of we are cutting the tree to eat the fruits. I find myself in this dialectic hunger, a labyrinth of wrong paths, desires and sensationalism. I hope i will change. Feel a deep sadness about that minds crossing my road. It´s kind of seperating, splitting men into races. Don´t wanna feel and act like a racist in it´s beginning. But I do. Still. While trying to move in awareness of respect.
Uncover that places suprises the expactations. In a similar way menkind is isolating his nature from the nature, the humanness from so called other humans. I´d loved to be without efforts of narcissism and ignorance. As a consequence I´d to leave my camera and stop publishing. Or maybe discover a way on that wrong way. Maybe that´s the real strike. Accepting that there will be never a way out and find a way in.
Just travel by myself and for myself. Not trying hard to avoid tourism. It´s not about where you are, it´s about who you are and why you are there.
We are all travelers.
We are all racists.
We will never be humans, because we are humans.
Maybe its kind of an instinct. Maybe it´s the impact of issues of media, capitalist systems and religion, instructing that we have to be someone, reach something, be different, be individual. Search and exploit, handing the discovery over to industrialization.
Searching for a moderate claim to finish.
Still searching…

odd

Last night in Bangkok, for now. Young skinny loony mastered vampire, eyebrows up like wings of a bat, furious dark hairfire, suck sucking sucker of a burmese ladyboy, kept telling me he is not gay at all. And the sexy lady next to me, whispering her desire to lay down with me in bed, just for hugging. Escaping the lady, sacrificing the ladyboy, feeling his knees tremble at my toes. Good Riddance! I was too drunken. Appreciate the Sang Som, again.
Overslept. Waked up in disorder, gathering, focusing, rised in a moment of shock, felt like bounced against a bar of perception. My flight is today!
Two hours left to tight me, myself and my backpack, splattered on the floor of the four walls hotel room. Check my creditcards again at the ATM near Khao San. Spent the last two days calling my bank back so called home and going to again and again. And again. Probably tried all kinds of, ATMs, Exchange counters, banks, business banks, international banks, just to get the message, call your bank. I got it at the first time! My beloved bank told me in a very friendly and naiv way that i should be fine and try again maybe tomorrow. What kind of tomorrow you mean? The tomorrow when i start my new carreer as a beggar or what? So today is tomorrow. Still. Doesn´t work at all. Fuck the banks. Fuck money. Fuck rushing around. It´s all about that worst addiction plastic shit, cracking my asshole. I was getting paranoid. Is this kind of curse? Caused by my negative approach about Bangkok? Or is it because of my black cross upside down shirt? Does the government want to get rid off me because i drink all the Sang Som? Or is this fate, tries to tell me not to leave to Yangon. And i just will, and will remember that moment, as i didn´t listen to fate, saving my life, toothbrush whatever.
In Myanmar only cash is real, no plastic, that´s their – the travel pimps – advice. Because you never know what´s happening in a country like this. 8 years ago, i was part of this political game, but today, changed a lot and fast.
I am so pissed. More about myself then the rest. Why i didn´t take a third creditcard with me? WHY? I feel like a busted falling traveller down to the ground, to reality.
Will i be tomorrow in Yangon? Will i survive Myanmar? Will i get money there? I am surely be too proud to ask other farangs to run a money deal and supporting my pace back on the road.
Will i?
Do i have to… what?
I am sick of these browsing questions in my head, zombies of lost security, transformed utopia of a certain upright life.
I have to do NOTHING!
I will do what i want.
Pock that in your fucking head, brainmachine!
Nothing is hastening, not time nor my feet should.
It´s all about present. Should be.
Maybe that´s kind of the weight you have to take care of by travelling lonesome and it comes to money. Feel like a black honking donkey.
Will i catch my flight?
Of course, easy, i catched. The lady at the hotel told me i will be ok taking the minibus two and a half hour before departure. Bus takes only one hour. Trip through the metal smoking traffic jam of Bangkok made me start thinking different. After 65 minutes i was standing in front of the baggage desk. Right now sitting in the Air Asia Boeing. Now everybody can fly. The slogan of the aircraft, forced me to imagine a kid nosing down hundreds of screams in a rice field.
Leaving Bangkok feels so liberating. And i am also kind of proud, haven´t visited one Waht, royal place or Buddha posing for flashlights. Proud cause i don´t feel disappointed about at all. Never wanted to be a traveler, adventurer or tourist. I am all of it and less. You never see all sights, there will always be one more, more authentic, more local, more of the most wanted. The advantage of that? I can do what i want to and i will always be a boring conversational partner with other farangs. I can´t advise you anything, and then, the best at the end, i was here more than 8 years ago. Yes. That was technical K.O. – Wow! That must be like totally different in comparison to today. I didn´t thought you are that old, you look so young.
K.O.
I can show you how to drink with locals or gettig around with no maps and guides, getting lost and don´t feel like a shadow of your own, fearing the dark side of the void.
Where are your from?
Where have you been?
Where will you go?
Where are the hidden tracks? Have you found some?
You know what? Drink. Shut up. Drink. Or leave, just leave. Or even better, don´t start to chat with me. Yes. Again. One more day without talking to someone.
I am disgusted by farangs and to be one of them, it´s like a second skin, which you can´t burn, even by the sun. I start to deny, deny being not in my home country.
Conclusion: nearly missed wake up calls, buses, flights, responsibility, awareness or my promise to take care of myself.
Solution: Stop drinking. Start to be focused. Start to share the ego, maybe it will stop mutating me from the inside.
I am a louzy traveler, don´t have a map, a lonely planet or a kind of backgrounds about countries i stay. But, so, i can´t dispute at all.
Mybe i should just shut up.
I will.
I have to.

swamping

Noisy dirt. Streets soaked in crowds. Water channels. Bridges. Bridged sewerage. McDonalds. Burger King. Starbucks. No fakes. Army of stalls. It´s a fakes world. Miles and Miles. Shoemakers. Shoeblacks. Sew service. Tailors. Garages. Blocked Specialisation. Vibrators. Spanish flies. Porn. Censored youporn. Blockbusters. Hollywood. Bollywood. Barbies. The royal family. Buddhas. All kinds of, looking like a Disneyland edition. Toys. Toys and more toys. Fruits of all shakes. Fins of sharks. Jaws of sharks. Shark soup. Insects, deep fried. Scorpions, deep fried. Wind of no change. Deep fried everything of anything. Travelers. Adventurer. Snoops. Beggars. With or without limbs. Sleepers. Peepers. Reapers. SS Hotel. 7 11. German? Hitler! More Chang. More cigarettes and smokers. Ping Pong. Soccer. Basketball. Modern architecture. Colonial-style. No architecture. Parks with open air bodybuilding cages. Tuk tuks for whatever you want to transport, your crew, your furniture, kids, ripped to a collage of school uniforms.
Bangkok has it all.
I can´t imagine that there is something you don´t get here – excluded silence. Even the AC seems to vomit.
And i am… maybe just fake.

identified

Finding a new answer to “Where are you from?”

You are from Holland?
You are Polish?
You are from the US?

I started to answer, “As i left, I lived in munich”. Would feel more comfortable with, “I was born in germany.” Feels more authentic, supporting my no-more dream to be part of the world, no nationality, least of all no patriotism
or nationalism. Eventough life starts between borders and if you take a look at the eyes, you don´t have to ask, i pretty sure most of the local people here would change with my life, no doubt, without having a notion of it.
I would.
I am now four weeks on the road, not even started to be on the road, till now feels more holiday. Started to think about what is the difference of travel and holiday or doesn´t fit the word travel at all? My passport is the insurance to travel like i am on holiday. My emotions are more like rather die than go back home, and i have an insurance for that as well. Eventhough i sometimes miss home. Thinking about that fact, i realize, can´t name the place called home. Home stucked in the feeling of missing. Something. Not safity, not routine, maybe my local pub and of course my friends. But I prefer the options to meet people as friends. To be more as i was. Not someone different. Somebody with whom i didn´t get in touch before. Forcing my social desires. No borders, no frontiers. Just be without thinking why. Day by day. As long as my feet holding ground. Then lossing ground, stepping forward.
It´s wednesday noon and i had a soup at the street and now a beer at one of this thousands of tourist places in Bangkok.
Arriving at Bangkok is still a pain in the ass.
I need an ATM.
Because without money, you are not even a where-you-from.

– Really? You don´t look german.
– Thank you!

anchored

– Where? Here? (Laughing. Nang points between here eye-brows)
– No no. Here. (Pointing on my left area of the receding hairline) On the heart-side.
– Ooh, really?
– Why not?
– You are sure?
– I was never sure. (presenting my body. Laughing.)
– Ok. I understand. (presenting here serious way of modifying)

Nang, a middle-aged handsome and energetic woman, mother of a son, is part of the Tattoo Club Koh Phangan since 8 years, runned by 3 different studios, all located in the same street, Soi Krung Thai, in the center of Thongsala.
She`s performing now for about 4 years as bamboo artist, the only female one on the island. Never used the machine. – If she can remember any special tattoos? … One inside the (bottom) lip of a women. And a mustache on this (middle) finger, because she was model. Very funny. … I also did here body. (refering to a women, the skin stretcher, sitting on the other couch, ) She said you can have all my body.
The lady turned around kind of shy. And after a giggle she lift here shirt and showed a spiritual tattoo, round and flowered with small symbols. For Protection. I am leaning forward. Show is over. The lady bashful rubs here belly and smiles kindly.
The Club runs also a very nice hidden paradise, named Tattoo Garden. Beside one studio a small entrance opens a beautiful green space, small bungalows, animals, wooden balconies and a small stage, lined by circling bamboos, in the center for jamming. They don´t book bands, they just came by and say hello.
5 artists are working at the Tattoo Club, 4 checking tattoos, one piercer. Nang. For 10 years now.
But you are not born here, right? No, i am born North East of Thailand, on the countryside, very normal.
Why are you staying on Koh Phangan? … Many People around here, from all around the world, different countries. I like talking to them and I like to go around the world sometimes.
They offer also a more spiritual way of tattoo art made by bamboo. Nang is not a spiritual person.
– No. I am not no no.
She is laughing.

Thank you Nang, for this wonderful memory.

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Actually it was my second tattoo i get on this island. My first one, 2006, caused by a motorbike accident with my sister, visiting me. Koh Phangan Tattoo they call it, the scar from an infected wound, suppurating in my left leg.

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homie

– Ich war vorher an deinem Bungalow. Du hast aber nicht ansprechbar ausgesehen.
– Echt du warst da? Komisch. Und ich dachte, dass du da warst… dass jetzt Besuch kommen würde und ich entspannt mich mal für fünf Minuten in die Matte schlage!
– Ja, hab dann beim Weggehen eine Wasserflaschen herunterfallen gehört. Waren dann aber weniger als 5 Minuten.
– Dachte ich mir, dass du das gehört hast. Warum biste nicht zurück?
– Ach ich musste dann was anderes machen. Hab ich vergessen.
– Ok.
– Genau! Gitarre hab ich gespielt.
– Dann wars ja gut, dass ich meine Kopfhörer aufbehalten habe.

Founded a great musician and companion at Shambhala Bungalow Village. And a delicious spaghetti cooker. Of course a best manager of a very relaxing place, highly recommended.
And a friend.
No. Two.
No four!
Four weeks.
Four friends.
And not the unspecial ones.
And lots of love.
See you next.
Crossing roads.

Thanks for a start in stylisch chaos.

– Do you know what i mean? Stylisch?
– No. What? Stülich!
– Who cares.
– Me? Not.
– Stylisch meinte stilvoll. Stilvolles Chaos. Chaos mit Stil. Klingt beides beschissen.
– Ja, tut es.
Browsing languages.

Shut up you german dudes! Can you imagine? This transformation? German dude? I can. Just forget the bathrobe, you just need your underwear. – Ah i hate this word in my scripts. So forget about the german dudes.

So. Many many lovely thanks for an chaotic peaceful countdown to my first move.
Going to Bangkok.
You coached so well! – Everybody coaches, get teached, teaches, and even though this are just words, if you listen to, you understand more. Couldn´t be worse, right? Instead of commanded by the best ones.
That´s part of moving.
On the road. Again.
So let´s get rid of this touchy blasphemic romantic shit. – Also part of moving, leaving places. Not commanded yet how to react.
And NOW P-A-C-K the bag!
But not again, first time, on travel.
Before, back home, that was only a dress rehearsal.
Bangkok.
I like this new door.
Stepping on a new stage. It´s nearly 8 years ago last time.
Taking the ferry to Surrathani, up north by train to Bangkok.

4 days ahead to Bangkok. While i am writing these words, i am in my hammock on the balcony, floating, listening to music and i feel… well i don´t care about words you might be delighted. There is no word for that.

magic

Satanic crickets, black army of metal sawing high tweeters.
Spiders with a penis hat, one ball below forcing eight pubes apart.
A bumy browsing saurian, 1,60 m long, dull in his motivation to move his sack of a reptile, flicking his tongue.
White magic trees whispering in a salty blob of sweat.
Plastic laterns, guiding the way to paradise.
Great views on the heavily greened interior.

It´s a great hike to Bottle Beach.
After taking the wrong path, signed in Siamese, climbing up thirsty rocks of waterfalls, following dead end by dead end, abandoned the idea of falling, mastered to explore the entrance, a hidden one, diverting from the dirt road, passing the Coconut Beach Bungalow, after about 500 m.

And again, forgot the towel.

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balanced

Peering at the calm sea
a beaten level wild
resting chomatose.
Landscape is nothing.

Do i feel hapiness?

It´s all about your landscapes inside,
your layers of diversity, block of doom
and pleasure, criticism and sin.
Joy.
Passion.
Desire.
Nobody desires war, crimes, cruelty.
Everybody accept hope.
The satisfaction of peace.
Somewhere beyond horizon.
Enough to loose everything and imagine the truth,
another expression for reality,
meaning imagination,
looping in belief.
There must be something out there.

I just feel calm.

Landscape is nothing.
The endless sea inside me,
such as the wicked safety of the shore.
Earth.
Stand.
Dirty lousy piles of a goat´s asshole!

I just feel like an outsider of my inside.
There must be something out there.
But i don´t know if it´s good.

heated

So fuckin freakin hot, beyond belief.
I no longer can´t differ the rusty chirr of the cricket´s army from the sustained squeak of the lamely wings of the fan, differ with a cognitive ability.
The raising air weakens after some sort of spirals in the nowhere right beyond the fountain.
I don´t know how to lie.
I don´t feel like lying, more like a fly trapped in glue.
Thinking about the evening, desire the breeze of cooling, leaving pulverulent sand trickling through the hair coated back.
Left-behind a far-off tone of froth.
Even this tone sounds like a red booming metal machine. Merciless blast of a furnace.
It´s all flowing. Creeping. Melting.
I am adopting things around my body, getting touched by.
Sand. Sheet. Pillow. A peace of peanut´s wrapping.
Awakening up as a salted Golem.
It´s wonderful and melty, not wonderful melty.
00:38.
The sand is perfect for peeling the mosquito bites on the sheet.
In the bungalow next door a women is puking.
Maybe hot steam.
Puking in this heat. Jesus. You haven’t the faintest idea!
00:40.
And nothing more.
Just how it is.
Awaiting less…
Dumb froth.
Is it possible to fuck in salty water?
On the mattress, won´t work out. You find yourself in a kind of leaking waterbed.
Sometimes it´s best to be alone.
Sweating.
Just sweating.
Sweat in Sweat out.
Why i didn´t got myself drunken again. I would have a sleep now. No dreaming. Just sleeping.
Tomorrow the whole will have been soaked by the sheet. Including myself. Like the night the froth.
Where is daylight, i wanna get a bottle of Sang Som.
00:53.
No sex. No beer.
Women puking next door.
That´s my world!
I think it´s a pretty steamy one.

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